"I know Miss Mary's lily is there, and it's got five blossoms on this year; she told father so down at the store. And such a lot of evergreen as the girls did take in yesterday!" Her face was still turned in the direction of the church on the outskirts of the scraggly mountain town, and whose spire pricked through the dark green piñons surrounding it. "I ain't fixed—I ain't never fixed now." And she glanced down along her unbuttoned jacket, over the faded delaine dress, to her shoes tied with strings held together by countless knots. "It seems awful lonesome to be home on Easter."
She pulled out some brown woolen gloves from the pocket of her jacket, and drew them on slowly. Her fingers crowded out through numerous holes, but she pushed them back, pulling the ends of the gloves further up, and drawing down the sleeves of the jacket in an attempt to leave as small a part of the woolen gloves in sight as possible. "Father wouldn't care—he never cares." She buttoned her jacket hastily, settled her brown hat a little straighter, ran fleetly along the road leading toward the church, and breathlessly climbed the rude steps, together with a half-dozen other girls, just as the bell threw down its last sweet tone.
Some of the girls going up the church steps nodded good-humoredly to Martha Matilda, but others pushed by too eager to notice. Martha did not follow the girls far up the aisle of the church, but dropped down into an empty pew near the door. How spicy and nice it did smell! She reached up so that she might see the prettily-decorated altar over the heads of the ones filling the church. Yes, there was Miss Mary's lily with its five blossoms right on the stand by the pulpit. How beautiful it looked, showing above the evergreens covering the altar-rail! And there were Mrs. James' geraniums, a whole row of them—no one but Mrs. James ever had geraniums worth much. And there were two little spruce trees, one at each end of the altar-rail, with their cones all on. Hadn't the girls worked, though! But the boys had helped. Lutty Williams had told Martha Matilda all about it Saturday evening, going home from the meat market, and then had awakened the first desire in Martha to go "just for Easter" to the school she had dropped out of.
Martha drew a long breath and was just falling back into an easier posture after her extended survey, when a hand touched her shoulder. "I thought, dear, you would want to see the lilies;" and there was Miss Mary, as tall and sweet as a lily herself, with a brown straw hat wreathed with cowslips, and a blue serge dress, neat and close-fitting. "You can see better up with us;" and she drew the hand with the brown woolen glove up close under her arm.
"Oh, no, Miss Mary, I can't! I ain't fixed! I can see here." And the little girl pulled herself back as far as Miss Mary's hold upon her allowed.
"Nonsense! The idea of your staying down here alone!"
There was such sweet insistence in Miss Mary's voice that Martha stood on her feet and allowed herself to be drawn out into the aisle. But though for a few steps she followed with evident reluctance, a latent dignity caused her to free her hand and walk the remainder of the way as though of her own accord. A cluster of girls were watching for Miss Mary's coming in a square pew near the front.
"We've saved a place for you right here in the middle," said the girl nearest the aisle, as their teacher came to them. And then they shifted this way and that, so that "the place" was widened to take in Martha Matilda as well.
"Doesn't the church look nice, now we have it all fixed!" asked one of the girls, as she nestled up close to Martha, reaching over her to speak lovingly to the teacher.
How cozy Martha felt, sitting there right in the heart of it all! How pretty the lilies were, up near! And to think that her mamma had given the first little bulb to Miss Mary!—Miss Mary had told her so one day at school.